


And As We Fall We Sing

by ClemencyForTheCometKing



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Just angst, no happy ending, probably canon compliant but frankly most of my knowledge is second-hand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:27:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23097841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClemencyForTheCometKing/pseuds/ClemencyForTheCometKing
Summary: After finally obtaining the Silmarils, Maitimo is on his way to the volcano. Maglor makes a valiant attempt at optimism.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 10





	And As We Fall We Sing

**Author's Note:**

> I have written this some three years ago, just a few weeks after the Silmarillion finally clicked for me. I keep finding it every few months and actually liking it, despite the fact my understanding of the characters has changed greatly since I have written it. (I'm most confused about how I appear to have hated Feanor? That's... not up to date.)
> 
> Anyway, since I still enjoy this one after such a long time, maybe you will too.

Maedhros turns around for a few seconds, facing him for the last time, and Maglor can see the remnants of sanity leaving his brother’s gaze. What replaces them is determination, firm resolve, Maitimo has settled on something and for a moment Makalaurë doesn’t know what it is, until suddenly it hits him. 

“ _Nononono_ nonono!” What is at first a thought turns into a cry as Maedhros starts walking away. He can’t do it, not now. Maglor gets up and chases the other elf up the slope, which quivers every few seconds.

“You don’t have to, why would you, it’s all going to be okay!” he starts, pausing every few words in hope for a response. His brother just keeps walking. “We did horrible things, but it’s over now, we’re not going to do it again, you dying will not solve anything, you know it. Maybe we can even fix something. It’s okay if we can’t, but we could try? Just give me… Give us a few days to think,” he says, gathering all of his strength to produce the most comforting, friendly, gentle smile he can. It comes out as a grin of a lunatic. It’s okay; no one will ever witness it. “We will come up with something. We are free now.”

He keeps the grin up for a few more seconds, but Maedhros doesn’t turn around to see it. That won’t work, even though for a moment Maglor really believes it might. He would give a lot to have someone say these words to him, but he feels stupid for thinking that this kind of line could get to a person like Maitimo. 

Deep breath. It’s okay. There are plenty of things he could say.

“Good, it’s not about our sins. Is it…” He can’t understand Maedhros’s mind very well, not anymore, but he’s going to try. “I said we are free, you know why? Because we got them, the Silmarills,” He keeps himself from adding an epithet. “We got them. That’s what you wanted, right? Till the very e… I mean no, not end, it’s the beginning now, we are starting anew. But we retrieved them, we worked so hard, we did so much, isn’t that grand? They don’t understand it now, but one day they will, and they will look up to us and give us the praise we deserve.” No reaction. He swallows, as if trying to get rid of the taste of the lie on his tongue. Maybe if he…

He opens his sack and, still walking, tucks his hand inside and gropes for the wretched jewel. His hands are shaking and it takes a while for him to find it. He takes a deep breath–Maitimo doesn’t need a panicking mess of a brother right now, or ever for that matter–and pulls it out, clenching his teeth together as his skin burns. “We did it, look, we really did. Don’t tell me it wasn’t worth it” he stretches his arm out towards Maedhros and grabs his shoulder with the other hand, which gets pushed away by the redhead. Maglor stops for a moment, but collects his thoughts and continues. The temperature is rising with every step, he feels it and knows that there isn’t much time left.

He searches his mind for something to catch Maedhros’s attention, to make him hesitate even for a moment. Two figures stand out from the chaos in his head and he has no doubts as to which to talk about.

“Findekano,” he says and for the first time gets a reaction. Maitimo freezes on the spot and hope fills Maglor’s heart. Not all is lost, he has to play it right, he can play it right. Another deep breath. “Findekano. He will come back one day. Won’t it be wonderful to greet him here?” he says in a voice as calm and soothing as he can. Patronizing? Maybe; he’s not sure, he hopes not. Maitimo is listening and he can see the muscles of his back loosen up a bit, the tiniest bit. “It will be him, standing in the doorway one morning, sun against his back, gold in his hair as it used to be. Everything as it used to be.” He sees Maedhros’s back shake and after a moment of doubt dares to touch it. He lets the Silmaril slip into his pocket, feeling it burn only a little through the cloth, and places both of his hands on his brother’s shoulders, pressing a bit, holding the redhead still as he begins to shake more and more. “Almost everything. He might not have the ribbons yet, I don’t know if one gets reembodied with hair accesories, right?” He manages to smile a bit at his desperate joke, desperately but sincerely. He can’t see whether Maitimo’s reaction was the same. Still, he feels like he’s getting somewhere. “So he’ll be there, so bright, with his hair unbraided, ebony, and you will be frozen with joy, trust me, you will.” His voice is deep, quiet, and steadier than he thought he could make it; his hand clumsily strokes Maedhros’s shoulders. He is less scared now, they both are. “And he will take a step inside and look at you from under those long eyelashes of his and say… And say…”, he falls silent, searching for the perfect words, and that is a mistake.

There are a few seconds of silence until the thunder of another small earthquake mercifully rolls over them. And then there is silence again.

“What has become of you,” he finally hears another voice, breaking yet confident, painfully confident, say. “What has become of you, my love.”

They both stare into the night for a moment, speechless. Maglor curses himself: For not finding the right thing to say in time, but more so for not being sure whether he will be able to defy Matimo’s words with the same overwhelming confidence with which they were stated. The little hope he had starts slipping between his fingers.

“No,” he whispers. “I know him. I know how he looks at you.” There is a hint of jealousy in his voice, but mostly warmth. He leans towards Maedhros, breathes in and even dares to embrace him awkwardly. “If there is one person you can trust not to abandon you, it’s him.” Self-deprecating, but he will say that if it is going to help. He can hear the heartbeat of the other elf slow down, his cheek pressed against his brother’s ribs. Just like that. It might all just be okay. 

“If you are right…” Maitimo starts speaking. 

“I am, you know I am” Maglor interrupts him – such a foolish thing to do, he realizes too late when the redhead elf gets up suddenly, aggression filling his movements again. 

“If you are right and he would take me back, then I must go now and save him from this fate. We bring doom, Makalaurë, not the Silmarils, we. And he is the last person in this world I want to bring doom to.”

He is up again and some rocks roll down the slope as he starts walking, leaving behind Maglor’s silhouette – still on his knees, holding his now-empty arms in front of him. For a moment it seems like he’s not going to follow, like he gave up finally, and Maedhros gives a sigh of relief. His brother’s efforts were futile, but to keep spurning them like that… He quickens his pace. 

“F-father,” Maglor tries to shout, but changes his minds halfway through and just shakes his head. If Fingon didn’t help, then Fëanor won’t either and there is no reason for him to imbrue his tongue with this name ever again.

  
And then he feels it. At first it is bitterness that fills him, some sense of disappointment and resignation – the same that he expected, and strangely did not, feel after he touched his Silmaril. Soon, it turns into rage. 

He is used to rage. They call him gentle and he is, and he enjoys this reputation, but for years now there has always been anger in him. It was first against Morgoth, obviously, right away when he found out about the Silmarils. And father? He wasn’t sure. When he now thinks about it, his mind wanders back to how cold the handle of his bedroom door was on the night when he left his wife sleeping in there alone, unaware of his departure, and how much he hoped for a draught that would shut said door loudly enough to thwart his attempts at sneaking out secretly. It… It might be back then already that his anger turned against Fëanor, might be, but maybe it was just hindsight. He hoped so – had he really known it was all wrong so early on, he would have to hate himself even more than he already does. Maybe it was later, during one of the kinslayings, or when he saw Amrod’s writhing silhouette dance towards the starboard and fall into the soothing waves of Belegaer, or during one of the thousands of other times when he should have found the courage to turn his back on this whole endeavour. He could not be sure anymore.

Now, however, the anger was turning against his last brother. He suddenly remembered clearly every single thing he did for Maedhros. He was there for him through all the battles, all of the bad times, terrible times, stood there with his hand on his brother’s shoulder, watched the fear growing in the eyes of everyone they knew. As more and more backs and swords appeared where sympathetic faces used to be, he was still there, and _turned into a monster with you, and for you, just because you begged me not to leave you alone, yes, I know you didn’t say it, but it was there between the lines, every single word you uttered was dripping with plea, I knew it was what you really meant and that’s why I didn’t leave, not because of honor or the stupid oath or whatever you were imagining, but because of you, because for some unfathomable reason you wanted to stand up against the world, and I, I did that with you, I did so much and now you want to leave me when I need you in the very same way how dare you how fucking dare you._

He gasps for air, exhausted by the torrent of words he just threw out, and starts coughing as the volcanic smoke fills his lungs – precious seconds lost forever. Finally he reaches out, grabs his brother’s hand – touch more fierce than he ever expected – and then he somehow manages to say the words “How dare you” again, but in such a way that they sound like “Please, don’t go”.

Maitimo breaks free and, eyes squinting in the acrid smoke, he can see him step onto the vent’s brink. 

Maglor falters, but doesn’t fall down. Not that it matters; it’s not like he can be any more undignified.

The air burns as much as the Silmaril in his robes. 

He does not weep; one cannot weep up here.

He raises his head and tries to shout again.

“Won’t you at least offer me to join you?”

It comes out as a broken whisper.

And then he's even more alone.


End file.
